Across the Sea and Far Away
by T. Z. Townshend
Summary: Moriarty never reappears, but Sherlock Holmes survives his exile and it takes him fifteen years to return to his beloved London. He knows that things will have changed and he cannot simply slip back into his old life as he once did, but he is not prepared for the change he finds. Sherlolly Parentlock.
1. Home Again

**A/N: I got the idea for this fic about a year ago and I can't even remember what sparked it. Anyway, I've finally gotten around to writing it out, to here it is. I should warn you that there's going to be some vulgar language in here.**

Chapter 1: Home Again

Fifteen years. Fifteen years since Sherlock Holmes had murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen. Fifteen years since Sherlock Holmes had disappeared from the face of the Earth. And now he was back.

He knew he couldn't just drop in like everything would be the same. Not this time. There was no doubt in his mind that things would have changed drastically over the years and that he would not be able to have everything back the way it had been. Still, he yearned to see all of his loved ones again, to sit in his chair at 221B and pluck at the strings of his violin. Taking up his old career was out of the question. He couldn't be the famous detective anymore. At the very least, not until he'd found a way to introduce himself back into the lives of those he loved.

He began by visiting Baker Street. It was somewhat early morning then and he was surprised to see that there were lights on and people inside the flat. When he got closer, he realized that it was Molly Hooper and some man he had never seen before. Molly smiled and would have looked as if she hadn't aged a day if not for the hints of grey in her hair. The bottom of Sherlock's stomach dropped out when Molly kissed the unfamiliar man. He wished he could see her left hand to determine the extent of that relationship. He stopped himself there. Molly was happy and he had no right to interfere. Whatever they had been fifteen years ago, it didn't trump this, even if she lived in his old flat.

Molly and the man (brunet, strong features, well paid- most likely a doctor) suddenly turned to look at what was obviously a third person. Mrs. Hudson? No, Molly would never look at Mrs. Hudson with such a disapproving glare. The man was frowning too, but he seemed more shocked than put out. This confused Sherlock. He had no idea who the third person was. He got his answer a moment later when a teenaged girl with long, dark waves flowing down her back came out the front door. Her body language made it extremely clear that she was not happy. She wore a uniform for the local school and carried a black messenger bag decorated by three button pins, but Sherlock could not see what was on them from where he stood. Her face was unmistakably shaped like Molly's, as were her eyes, although they were clearly a vibrant green, rather than brown.

Glancing on last time at the windows of 221B to see the pathologist and her beau watching the teenager walk away, Sherlock made the decision to follow her. The least he could do for Molly right now was make sure that her daughter made it to school safely.

* * *

><p>"Good afternoon, Lilian," Cypress Hooper greeted her best friend morosely as she slid into her seat at the back of the chemistry classroom.<p>

"Your mum still determined to ask Matt to marry her?" the blonde inquired sympathetically and Cypress nodded.

"All I can do is stall her by interrupting their little _moments_." She spat out the last word like it was some form of revolting fungus and punctuated it all by slamming her Chemistry textbook down onto the table. Lilian was startled to the point where she nearly jumped off of her stool.

"Really, Cy, was that necessary? Why are you so against it anyway? Matt makes your mum happy and he's never been anything but charming." At this, Cypress fixed her friend with a chilling emerald glare.

"I've told you before. It wouldn't be right."

"Cy, you're dad's-"

"Dead. I know." Cypress' tone in that pithy remark ended the conversation and made Lilian look away to focus on her work.

Since the 'sudden and unexpected' resignation of their chemistry teacher a week ago (which half the school knew to be in some way Cypress Hooper's fault, although they didn't know about the illicit activity she'd caught him engaging in), the deputy headmaster had instructed them to do the work from the book until a replacement was found. Cypress had just been about to copy out the first problem for the day when an unknown man walked into the classroom, commanding the immediate attention of all of the students.

"Are you the new teacher?" someone blurted out.

"Yes. My name is Alastair Williams," he replied in a velvety rumble of a voice. He was middle aged, thin, and wore thickly rimmed spectacles over his almond shaped brown eyes. Time had been exceptionally merciful to his angular face and his hairline. His short, dusty auburn hair hadn't a speck of grey in it, but Cypress strongly suspected it was dyed. He was obviously one of those people who aged gracefully and there was something familiar about him that made Cypress pay attention.

Mr. Williams began roll call without any further comment and sped through until he got to Hooper, Cypress. He paused for a brief moment as she raised her hand, his eyebrows forming the quickest of frowns before he moved on. The corners of his cupid's bow lips twitched upwards when he reached the end at Watson, Lilian, as if he recognized the name. He didn't dwell on it and moved right into setting his rules.

"There will be absolutely no speaking out of turn or messing about in my class and don't ever think you can get away with anything in here. I will see. For example, I suggest that Mr. MacFinn take his hand out of his trouser pocket and wait to text his friend _after_ class." An incredulous and embarrassed James MacFinn instantly drew his hand from his pocket, his phone falling out with it, causing several of his classmates to laugh. "Now, put your books away and copy down what I am about to write on the board." Mr. Williams proceeded to write out a series of instructions for what was obviously an experiment. The rest of the period proved to be far more interesting than anything they'd done in months. They actually got to use fire for once. Ryan Farthing got his finger burnt, but only because he hadn't been paying attention.

Mr. Williams was admittedly rather harsh in his scrutiny of his students, but he never said anything that was unfair or untrue. He seemed to pay particular attention to Cypress and Lilian's work, but they did their best to ensure that they didn't give him a reason to call them out. Cypress enjoyed the snarky replies he made to students muttering about him under their breath. If things continued on this course, Mr. Williams might very well become her favourite teacher. Mind you, that was quite a compliment considering most would find it hard to beat the razor sharp wit of Ms. Sheffield, the literature instructor who had a strange obsession with a fantasy septology from the 2000's.

After class, Cypress stayed behind to ask the new instructor about something important which would determine whether she would like him or not.

"Excuse me, sir," she began, cautiously approaching him. He did not look at her as he answered.

"Yes, Ms. Hooper?"

"I, er, I usually stay for about an hour after school to, ehm, do experiments. It's been made clear that I am not to do this without supervision, so, er, do you think-" Cypress had never been good at making requests of people. Hell, there weren't many people she could easily talk to about anything. Someone had even once told her that she was a walking social disaster.

"Yes," Mr. Williams responded without letting her struggle to finish. There was something natural and comforting about the way he seemed to instantly understand her. Oh yes, he was her new favourite teacher. She grinned broadly and thanked him before practically skipping out of the classroom. Things were looking up. She didn't let the grousing of her maths teacher get her down and it didn't seem long before she was back in the lab, setting up her first independent experiment in weeks. She smiled to herself at the comfort of hobby, one which her mum had encouraged her to pursue from a young age. Getting back to it was like stepping into a warm bath.

Mr. Williams appeared just as she was checking to make sure that the fume hood was working properly. He watched her silently with a passive expression as she went about her business and she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. All of that was forgotten when she reached into the glassware drawer at her table and felt a sharp pain on the pad of her thumb. She let out a small gasp and withdrew her hand to find it bleeding rather profusely.

"Mr. Williams..." she called after biting back a whimper. He strode over to her, looking slightly alarmed at her wound. Cradling her hand in his own, he examined the damage.

"It's long, but not deep enough to need stitches. Stay here," Mr. Williams stated before disappearing into the supply room for a minute. He returned holding a box of cotton balls and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Cypress' eyes widened when she realized what he was intending to do.

"Shouldn't I go to the nurse?" she asked, not sure how she felt about some teacher she barely knew fixing her hand.

"The nurse is incompetent. He would most likely stick a plaster on this and send you away," Mr. Williams replied bluntly and Cypress giggled.

"Yeah, you're probably right." The school nurse seemed to go about his job with the idea that a plaster could magically solve almost any problem a student might face. Cypress put it down to laziness, rather than lack of medical knowledge.

"Hold still," Mr. Williams commanded, cradling her hand again. She grimaced when he began to clean her cut. It stung terribly, but she didn't want to embarrass herself by making any noise. When he was done, he covered the cut with a few more cotton balls and used medical tape to secure them.

"How is it that you just happen to have medical tape in your pocket?" Cypress questioned, narrowing her eyes at her new chemistry teacher.

"Over the years, I've found that keeping a roll of it on hand is a good idea." Well, that wasn't at all cryptic and vaguely worrying. "There. Now never reach into a lab drawer without looking again." There was a stern, paternal nature to those words that took Cypress off guard. Normally, she would have minded. She didn't like people trying to be a father figure to her, but there was something different about it this time.

"Noted."

"And if your parents ask, you did go to the school nurse. I'd rather not get any 'concerned' phone calls."

"Oh, er, parent actually."

"Apologies." There was a peculiar uncomfortableness in that answer that did nothing to quiet the odd feeling forming in Cypress' stomach.

"It's fine. My mum worries, but I don't think she'll get overly worked up about this." Mr. Williams gave her a tight smile and bade her continue her previous activities.

* * *

><p>The tube ride home was a mercifully quiet one. The lack of creepy old men trying to talk to Cypress gave her space to think. She idly traced her fingers over the medical tap on her left hand, pondering her mother's relationship with Matt and the things Mr. Williams had said to her that afternoon.<p>

Cypress could see in her mother's actions that she was trying too hard with Matt. It was like she was desperately trying to achieve some idea about what her life should be like, even though Matt really wasn't able to do that for her. Matt tried to be Cypress' dad all the time, but he had a very poor sense of the girl's needs and sometimes got angry with her for being "difficult to understand". It was especially frustrating because he had never made any real effort to understand her. On top of that, Cypress knew that her mum still had really strong feelings for her dead father and it just seemed wrong for her to force herself to this thing with Matt.

Cypress hadn't known Mr. Williams for more than a few hours, but she already felt safer and more comfortable around him than she ever had with Matt. She didn't understand why. That's just how it was.

She didn't really want to go home, but she stepped out at her stop and walked to 221 Baker Street, her hands in her trouser pockets. Matt opened the door just as she was getting out her key and he smiled down at her so cheerfully that it made her want to roll her eyes. He was obviously trying to show her that he wasn't still upset by her little outburst before school the other day.

"Come on in, Cy. I hope your in the mood for lasagne, because I'm making it for dinner." That's right. It was Matt's day off, which meant he cooked dinner. Tonight, he seemed to have forgotten that she, as a vegetarian, hated his lasagne. This was in addition to the fact that he _never_ remembered that she didn't like him calling her Cy. She only let the people she was closest to call her that. At this point, however, she had utterly given up on reminding him.

"Yeah, sure," she replied automatically as she came inside. She moved past the man she was afraid would be her future stepfather without giving him so much as a glance and ascended the stairs, two at a time, going straight up to her bedroom. Inside, she dropped her school bag near the base of her wardrobe and tossed her tie at her desk chair before collapsing face down on her bed. The duvet was freshly laundered, bless Mrs. Hudson. The landlady was a bit like a fairy godmother to Cypress, doing little things all the time that made her life just a tad better when everything seemed to have gone to shit.

With a groan of exhaustion, Cypress reached out and retrieved her laptop from her bedside table. There were a few emails in her inbox. One was a reply from her uncle about some colleges she was considering. He had found two of them up to snuff after investigating them himself. Another was from Lilian and it was a link to a video someone had taken of Mr. Williams teaching a class of year 10 students about combustion reactions. The was a sudden, startlingly large burst of flame and kids could be heard screaming while Mr. Williams kept a poker face the entire time, like he did this everyday. The video was titled "Badass Chem Teacher" and Cypress grinned, struggling to hold what would surely be a very loud laugh.

There came a knock on her bedroom door and Cypress' smile fell. What could Matt possibly want? She shut her laptop in annoyance.

"Yeah?" The question was laced with thinly veiled attitude.

"Can I talk to you, sweetheart?" It was her mum. When did her mum get home? She must have been too wrapped up in her own thoughts to register the sound of her entering the flat.

"Yeah." Her mum came in, wearing her usual soft smile and bearing a plate with a sandwich and apple slices on it, which she handed to her as she came to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry Matt forgot you're vegetarian again. He just needs some time to adjust to those little details of our lives," Molly apologized.

"He's been living here three months, mum. He's not trying," Cypress grumbled before taking a bite of apple.

"Matt cares about you, Cy. I'm sure he's just not very good at remembering things like this," Molly assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder, but Cypress wasn't convinced.

"I don't think so. You told him not to call you 'my Molly' once and he's never done it again, but he won't stop calling me Cy," the teen argued irritably and her mother sighed heavily.

"I'll talk to him, but in the meantime, you really must try to be more civil to him."

"Whatever."

"Cypress." There was the familiar maternal warning tone.

"Sorry, yes," Cypress corrected and Molly rubbed her shoulder affectionately before getting up. She then caught sight of her daughter's bandaged left hand.

"What's that?"

"Accidentally got cut by a chipped bit of glass, but it's taken care of," Cypress explained casually.

"Let me have a look at it later, alright?"

"Okay, mum." That was the unofficially established code between them for "Time to go now, mum." Molly gave her another smile and left her to eat her meal in peace.

* * *

><p>Cypress Hooper. That was the child's name. Cypress- a tree symbolizing sacrifice and mourning. The significance of that was not lost on Sherlock Holmes. He knew Molly was the sort to give her child a very sentimental name, so what sacrifice was she mourning? Cypress had said that she'd never known her father. He'd done the calculations and he knew that there was only one possible answer: Cypress was his child. That realization had hit him like a sack of bricks. Good lord, he was a father, an unsuspecting one with real responsibilities to this child which had gone unsatisfied for <em>fifteen years<em>. When he was young, he would have panicked at the thought, but fifteen years of hell had altered his temperament. It didn't matter if he was prepared or not for this responsibility. It was already there waiting for him and he was going to fulfill it. Clearly he couldn't be her father, not truly, not with the way things were with her mother, so he would be her teacher. He would watch over her and make sure that her future stayed bright.

Looking back on it, he supposed it should have been obvious that she was his when he'd first seen her. The girl had bits of him in her features, like her thick eyebrows and sharp profile. His genes had mixed with Molly's to create their child's brilliant green eyes and the chestnut waves of her hair. As far as her personality was concerned, that had yet to be fully determined, but so far it seemed that she had the qualities of intelligence, independence, and strength of will that he and Molly shared. She also had a strong friendship with the Watsons' daughter, a girl who had never known him despite his oath to always be there for her.

Now he could watch over both girls...and grade their homework, a task he found extremely tedious but which he endured for their sake. He didn't know if he'd ever be ready to reveal himself to his loved ones, but he was ready to be there for their children, because they were all that he had.

**A/N: So, what's the verdict? Worth continuing? I hope this was at least halfway decent. Thanks for reading.**


	2. Promises

**A/N: I really did not expect the reaction to this fic. Thank you everyone for being so kind and supportive. I'm happy to be able to bring this next chapter to you so soon after the first.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains discussion of traumatic experiences.**

Chapter 2: Promises

Cypress was spending less and less time at home and those closest to her noticed. She would get up, get ready for school, and leave before either her mum or Matt woke up. She would get to school a couple of hours before class even started, but the kind hearted janitor would let her in. She would sit wherever she felt like that day and write down music that was floating around in her brain until classes started, distracting herself from stressful thoughts.

After school, Cypress would stay and do experiments as long as she was allowed and then she'd often get a cab to the Watsons' house. They became concerned by this behaviour when they learned from Molly that the girl was leaving home early in the morning.

"Cypress, can you tell me why you're avoiding Matt and your mother?" Mary asked one evening after dinner, sitting down beside Cypress on the sofa. Mary could always be counted on to be direct and Cypress very much appreciated that about her.

"What makes you think that I am?" the girl countered, hoping that maybe the interrogation could be postponed.

"Don't play games with me. I'm trying to help you." It seemed that they were going to have to do this now, then. Cypress' left knee began bouncing on impulse. That happened whenever she was very anxious and it had the unfortunate effect of revealing her emotions to others.

"I don't want to see him and I especially don't want to see him with mum. I don't want to deal with being told that I'm being intransigent. I don't want to hear him call me Cy. I don't want to smell cooking meat all the way in my room because he can't be bothered to turn the vent fan on. I don't want to be in a place where I know I'm not welcome. Matt doesn't want me there. He wants it to be just him and mum with no child she had by another man around. I make things difficult for him. He's obligated to care about me as if I were his own and he pretty obviously doesn't care about me at all. And worst of all, mum is trying so hard to make this work that she can't see it." It all came spilling out suddenly like the breaking of a dam, everything that had been pressing on her since the day Matt had moved in. Mary looked back at her, wide eyed. Cypress drew her legs to her chest and buried her face in her knees, her body shaking with the sobs she didn't realize she was making. She just wanted it all to stop. She wanted Matt to go away and let things be like they were when it was just her and her mum.

"Oh Cy..." Mary sighed sympathetically. "Would you like to stay here tonight?" No more words would come out of Cypress, so she simply managed a slight nod. "I'll call Molly and let her know."

"What's going on?" Cypress heard John's voice now and he sounded extremely concerned.

"Cy's upset about Matt," Mary explained and John made a noise of understanding. "Could you call Lily down? I think she's really needed right now." A couple of minutes later, Cypress was firmly enveloped in Lilian's arms and she began to slowly calm down.

"Wanna try a new game I got on my phone?" Lilian asked once Cypress had regained control and wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. She was grateful that her friend knew how to distract her from her stress and embarrassment.

"Sure," she croaked out. Vaguely she registered Mary's voice coming from the kitchen. Her tone was clipped and Cypress wondered who the woman was talking to, because she never talked to Molly that way. John scowled and joined his wife in the kitchen. Neither of them came out again for several minutes, and by that time, Cypress had already beaten five levels of some game called Faerie's Feast. Much later, she would learn that Matt had picked up Molly's phone and Mary had decided to share a few well chosen words with him before demanding to speak to Molly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock saw the deterioration of his daughter's health day after day and he had no idea how to help her because he could see that the problem was stemming from her home life. That was a place he could not go at present. The best he could do was let her sleep in class and continue to keep a close eye on her. At this point, he didn't care in the slightest if others noticed that certain of his rules didn't apply to Cypress Hooper. He just wanted to ease his child's suffering.<p>

"Someone please wake Mr. Thomas and inform him that he will be held responsible for cleaning up any drool he gets on the table," Sherlock had droned during one class.

"What about her? Why doesn't she have to wake up?" someone had called out and he had sighed heavily.

"Ms. Hooper has earned her nap by performing above and beyond my expectations. Now, where were we..." The excuse had rolled off his tongue like it was nothing, but the students had still grumbled. He had heard the word favouritism tossed about quite often. Not that he had anything even remotely resembling a fuck to give. He hadn't really come here to teach noisy teenagers chemistry. God no. He'd come here to be a part of Cypress Hooper's life.

Sometimes, when he was feeling reckless and he and his daughter were alone, he dropped the teacher persona and let his true self shine through. He would participate in her experiments and talk to her about the things that interested them both. In time, he was sure that they had become friends. It was strangely exhilarating to know that he had earned her trust and he wondered if she would ever realize who he was. He knew she was clever enough to figure it out with the proper data. He accidentally planted the seed of the idea in her head shortly before the holidays.

Sherlock had been heading to his classroom at the start of the day when he had heard a group of students mention Cypress by name. He stopped and listened before he could round the corner and have his presence revealed.

"Bugger off, Cypress."

"Let me through."

"Go around. We don't have to move for you, weirdo."

"Please, I just-"

"I'd say go cry to you're daddy, but the loony's six feet under." This was followed by laughter and Sherlock went ridged. There came a smacking sound and a few shocked cries.

"Hey! What the fuck?!"

"My father was a good man!" Cypress snapped. Then there came the sound of someone falling hard onto the linoleum floor.

"Nobody cares, cunt. Get up and-" The speaker wasn't allowed to finish before Sherlock promptly revealed himself, a menacing glare fixed on his features as he fervently reminded himself that he wasn't back in St. Petersburg. The four offending students looked like deer in headlights upon seeing him, even with his toned down reaction.

"You four. Headmaster. Now," he growled angrily and they practically ran to obey him, leaving him to help a stunned Cypress to her feet. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, thanks, Mr. Williams," she replied softly. It was odd how she had almost sounded like Molly then.

"You didn't have to defend your father like that." Her green gaze snapped toward him at that and she looked rather offended.

"Yeah, I did. What would you know about it, anyway?"

"I know that your father wouldn't thank you for fighting with a bunch of know nothings over a few petty words."

"What makes you so sure?" He almost smiled at the question. He thoroughly enjoyed the fact that Cypress had no qualms about challenging authority. Molly had raised her well.

"I know who your father is." The statement seemed to almost physically hit Cypress, because she took a step back from him. She stared at him for a good long moment before she swiftly turned and stalked away. He knew what she had gleaned from his word choice and he didn't know whether to be glad or worried by his mistake.

* * *

><p>For most of Cypress Hooper's life, Sherlock Holmes had been an abstract concept. He was the intangible thing that had helped her mother conceive her. He was a character in Uncle John's oldest blog posts. He was someone people talked about who didn't really exist for her. She'd seen a few pictures and grainy videos when she was small and had had a burst of interest in where she'd come from, but in recent years, she hadn't felt the urge to examine her father. She'd practically forgotten what he looked like.<p>

Now, however, Mr. Williams' words had sparked something unstoppable inside her, a gnawing sensation in her gut that spoke of a desperate need to know. How did he know about her father? Why had he said 'is' and not 'was'? Who was her father _really_, anyway? She needed to refresh her knowledge of him and find answers to these questions.

The moment she got home that day she had been pushed to the floor, she opened her laptop and contacted the man who was both a master of secrets and the person who had known her father since the day her father had been born. Her Uncle Mycroft had always been reluctant to discuss Sherlock with her, seeing as he was partially to blame for her father's death, but she would not be dissuaded this time and she made sure that he understood that. She had not expected to receive an immediate response containing two videos. One was of her dad playing the violin at 221B, a silhouette against the light from the window. The other was him struggling to express a birthday greeting to John via video. It was this one that brought her whole world crashing down. She could see her dad up close, hear his voice, and watch his mannerisms. But for the wild, raven hair, the ice blue eyes, the bespoke suit, and of course the lack of spectacles and signs of middle age, he was Alastair Williams.

Cypress sat on her bed, unmoving, for a solid hour, in a state of shock. She didn't know what to do and she struggled to process the information she had just taken in. Sherlock Holmes was alive and had returned as her chemistry teacher. She had a father and he was within her reach. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

Cypress' head began to hurt with the influx to realizations and considerations popping up in her mind and the feeling of being overwhelmed took hold, sending her into a full blown panic attack. She curled in on herself, screwing her eyes shut as she desperately tried to get her breathing under control. Slowly, the panic reorganized itself into anger, a bitter rage for the father she had never known.

Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years. And Sherlock Holmes had only now seen fit to turn up alive, in disguise no less. Cypress had spent her whole life feeling _other_ because she didn't have two parents like most children. She had grown up watching her mother go through five boyfriends and girlfriends and now Matt, despite the fact that a man everyone thought was dead still held her heart firmly in his grasp. Cypress had seen the tears her mother had shed over it. To think that her father was alive and probably could have prevented these things from happening filled Cypress with a burning fury that compelled her to shove her laptop off her bed and onto the floor.

She began to wonder if anything she'd been told about Sherlock Holmes' death was true. In the midst of her anger, Cypress started to feel irrationally as if her father had abandoned her, fueling the fire of her emotions.

* * *

><p>These days, Sherlock Holmes spent his weekends prowling about London and sending anonymous tip offs to Detective Inspector Lestrade. It felt good to do a little crime solving again. It gave him hope that he might one day return to his true calling. If he was honest with himself, he also enjoyed seeing Lestrade follow his instructions once more.<p>

This weekend, though, Sherlock decided that he would see Molly. Just see her. He wasn't ready to talk to her yet. Try as he might, he was finding it very difficult to think of what to say to her. He knew from experience that a simple "hi, not dead" would be botching it up pretty badly. As such, he found himself lurking near 221, observing the woman he loved returning to the flat with her shopping. He realized that this was probably a very creepy thing for him to do, but he had to see her, even if it was just for a moment. He needed a new memory of her to hold onto that wasn't tainted by use in keeping him sane while he had been away.

The moment her boyfriend opened the door for her and helped her with the shopping, Sherlock knew it was time for him to leave, but then a sound reached his ears from within the flat. Someone was playing a cello. Mrs. Hudson did not play and he could see two of the other three people who lived there, so the music was clearly from Cypress. A swell of pride bloomed his chest and convinced him to do something incredibly risky.

Sherlock made his way over to Speedy's and whipped out his phone as he sat down at one of the little tables, setting it to record the song filtering down from next door. It was a very impassioned, angry tune and Sherlock theorized that Cypress was expressing her feelings regarding Molly's boyfriend. Still, she played beautifully and he managed to get most of the melody before someone asked him what he wanted and he was forced to end the recording. He ordered coffee in a Scottish accent and sat quietly, listening to the sound of his daughter's cello. The music pulled him into his mind palace, where he recalled his last memory of Molly before his exile...

_"Why me? Why now?" Molly asked as she sat on his bed with the sheets pulled up to her chest, watching him button his shirt._

_"I thought that giving you something you've always wanted would be an apt way of ensuring that you'll remember that you meant a great deal to me." Molly's lovely brown eyes went wide and he knew that she'd picked up on his use of the past tense._

_"Meant? Sherlock, why are you talking like you won't be here?" Clever Molly. Always so perceptive. He shoved down the urge to kiss her and forced himself to get on with the inevitable._

_"Because I won't be. I have to leave and you will never see me again," he told Molly solemnly._

_"What?! Why?!"_

_"I killed a man in cold blood to protect John and Mary and their unborn child. I must now pay the price." For a long moment, Molly simply stared at him in shock, and Sherlock waited for her expression to become one of disgust and horror. After all, she'd just made love to a murderer. He waited for her to reject him, because it was what he expected and because it might be less painful for him to go if he knew his departure wouldn't hurt her. He should have known that she would deviate from his expectations. She always did._

_"You're not going to prison, then. If you were, I'd be able to come see you. So where are you being sent that I can't follow?" Sherlock's chest ached at those words. Why was Molly so determine to care for him, even after everything that he'd done?_

_"I'm being sent overseas for an undercover operation that will kill me within six months." He could see the exact moment in which Molly's heart broke in her body language and the ache in his chest grew stronger, almost threatening to suffocate him, but his face remained stony._

_"Oh, Sherlock..." Molly's eyes grew shiny with the threat of tears and she got to her feet to pad over to him and place a soft kiss on his lips._

_"Promise me that you'll let yourself be happy after I'm gone. You deserve to be happy."_

_"I promise."_

Sherlock came back to reality in his dingy little flat not far from the school where he taught. He could still remember the feeling of Molly's tears on his face as she had kissed him and the same ache that had plagued him then returned.

He felt worn out, like the cover of an abused paperback book, scarred by rips and time and weathered at the corners with a spine so creased that it was no longer as strong as it once was. The years and all their baggage weighed on his heart and his body, but he feared the rest that would alleviate some of his fatigue. Too many nights he had awoken in a cold sweat, yelling and brandishing the knife he kept on his bedside table at an attacker who wasn't there.

Sherlock knew all too well what was happening to him and he knew that he needed to talk to someone about it, but the only person he could discuss any of it with was his brother and he'd sooner go to a complete stranger for help. He wanted to talk to John. John knew what it was like. John would understand. The only trouble was the process of revealing to John that he was alive. It seemed that a lot of his problems would be solved if he could just figure out how to tell his friends that he was back, so instead of resigning himself to sleep that would achieve nothing, he sat on his sofa with Cypress' cello playing on a loop and went deep into thought.

By Monday, he had a plan. It wasn't fool proof, but it was something. He prepared for a day of teaching as he normally did and steeled himself for the rough day he knew he was about to have. The degree of that roughness he had not accurately predicted, as it so happened.

Cypress didn't show up for his class and he grew concerned. She'd been looking particularly haggard in the past couple of weeks and he tried not to think too much about all of the things that might be wrong for not to come to class. He had enough unfortunate instincts by now that he might easily overreact. At the end of the period, he placidly asked Lilian if she knew where Cypress was and the girl shrugged.

"She's been having some family problems. She's probably sulking in the loo."

"If you see her, please tell her that I want to talk to her."

"All right."

Sherlock didn't see Cypress until the end of the day, when she normally came by to do her experiments and he was not at all expecting the behaviour that followed. She came through the lab door and stalked right up to him, yanking the glasses off his face, and the first thought that fully articulated itself in his mind was _she knows_.

"How could you?" she demanded, her eyes like orbs of emerald flame. "Fifteen years. Fifteen years, Sherlock Holmes! Where the hell were you?!"

"Cypress." Sherlock said her name calmly and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders but she shoved them away. He persisted. "Cypress! Calm yourself and for god's sake, keep your voice down."

"I will not! I want to know who the fuck you think you are!" Losing his patience, Sherlock stepped back from his daughter and began rolling up his sleeves.

"You want to know where I was? Fine. I'll show you." He displayed to her his forearms, which were laden with scars. On his right, there was a series of circular marks where he had been used as an ashtray. On his left, there was a long, thin white line from his elbow to his wrist where he'd been cut with a switchblade. "And there's more all over my body, because I spent fifteen years in some of the darkest places this continent has to offer, paying the cost of the Watsons' future."

Cypress stared back at him in silence and he could see her anger melt away. Her eyes welled up with tears and her mouth moved, but it was many seconds before any sound came out.

"I'm s-sorry...I...I..." Trembling, she carefully folded his glasses and placed them in his hand, her eyes looking anywhere but at his own.

"I understand," he said, returning his hand to her shoulder. In one swift movement, she pulled him into an almost suffocating embrace. Slowly, he returned the gesture, and the ache in his heart lessened.

"I really hope that I haven't passed out in the loo and dreamt all of this." Cypress' words were muffled by her face being buried in his chest, but Sherlock could still understand her.

"This is real; I promise," he told her, a small smirk playing at his lips, and she hugged him even more tightly. "Can you do something for me, Cypress? Can you swear to me that you won't tell anyone about me, especially not your mother?" The teenager instantly pulled away from him, a scowl on her sharp features, warning him that she was about to spout objections. He was quick to explain himself before she could speak. "It's very important for me to be the one who tells her I'm alive. If she hears it from anyone else, it will in all likelihood not end well for me, understood?" Sherlock watched her give his words a moment of careful consideration before she nodded and he smiled, leaning over to place a kiss on the top of her head. He was lucky to have such a daughter.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope I'll be able to give you the next chapter soon.**


	3. Painful Truth

**A/N: Despite the pressure of school and NaNoWriMo, it seems that I have been able to get you all another chapter of this. I do hope it meets your expectations.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains excessive alcohol consumption.**

Chapter 3: Painful Truth

Ever since Matt had moved in, Molly had found her daughter even more unmanageable than ever. It pained her to think that she was losing touch with Cypress, especially when the thing driving them apart was Matt. Molly had felt that she could make it work with Matt, that she could finally have the family she'd always dreamt of and be happy, but Cypress wasn't making it easy, and as time passed, she started to notice that Matt wasn't either. Cypress was upset with him for multiple valid reasons, some of which Molly found extremely difficult to explain away. In her heart, Molly knew the day would come when she would have to decide if Matt was worth her daughter's unhappiness. That day came sooner rather than later.

Things had been looking up when it happened. Cypress' mood had taken a turn for the better. Whatever had caused this, Molly was not aware of it. All she knew was that the cello music that came from her daughter's bedroom had become much more upbeat in recent days. It gave her hope that maybe this thing could work out after all. That is, until Molly started to pay close attention to Matt's comments about Cypress.

"Does she ever put that thing down? I swear I hear enough classical music on a daily basis to make my ears bleed," Matt grumbled one evening after he'd arrived home from work.

"Not everything she plays is classical, Matt. And she plays beautifully," Molly replied, scowling at her boyfriend. Matt didn't know much of anything about music, though he was a great dancer.

"It doesn't matter if it's beautiful at two in the morning when everyone is trying to sleep." Molly had never really thought about that, to be honest. She was used to it. Perhaps if Matt understood, he'd be more accepting.

"Cypress isn't like most people when it comes to her emotions. She doesn't find it easy to express herself with words, so she needs her cello," Molly explained, recalling how an eight year old Cypress' face had lit up when she'd been given her first cello.

"Yeah, well, she needs to find another way to deal with her shit, because it's really inconsiderate of her to saw away at that thing when we have to sleep," Matt complained, setting aside his empty dinner plate. "Why don't you just send her away to school? I'm sure everyone would be happier that way." The pathologist glared back at him, unable to believe that he'd be so insensitive.

"I sleep just fine," Molly snapped, "and I will _not_ send Cypress away because you can't handle her needs." Matt looked quite affronted by this, as if he had fully expected her to agree with him, and she began to wonder why she had ever seriously considered marrying this man.

"It's really unlike you to act so selfishly, Molly."

"Excuse me? Did you just call me selfish for caring about my daughter?" Molly demanded incredulously. Cypress mattered to her more than anything, even life itself, because she was her mum and she loved her. End of story. The fact that Matt was trying to make that out as selfishness was repulsive.

"She's just a walking reminder of some dead bloke you slept with! Instead of dwelling on the past, why don't you let go and focus on the future in front of you!" Matt leaned toward her as he shot back his answer and she recoiled, her nose scrunching in disgust. The sound of Cypress' cello stopped abruptly, but neither of the adults noticed.

"My future won't include you if you can't tell the difference between what you want and what's best for me!" Molly seethed, pushing a persistent Matt away from her.

"I love you, Mol-"

"Get out, Matthew Campbell! If you can't love Cypress too, then I'm done with you!" Those words resonated through the flat and suddenly all was quiet as the two of them stared each other down. The next thing Molly knew, Matt was gone and she was on the outside of half a bottle of wine.

* * *

><p>Cypress had never wanted it to happen like this, but she came to realize that it really couldn't have happened any other way. Matt had finally spoken his mind and from what she'd heard, things had well and truly gone to shit.<p>

After the flat had become quiet again and Cypress felt brave enough to come down from her bedroom, she found her mother sitting on the kitchen floor, drunk and crying.

"Every time. Every single time. I must have some fetish for complete assholes," the woman muttered.

"Mum?" Cypress knelt down next her mother, her voice wavering anxiously as she spoke. She'd never seen her this inebriated before and she didn't know what to do.

"Cy. My little girl. My sweet angel. I'm so sorry...so, so sorry..." Cypress was quickly pulled into a tight hug and she was struck with the urge to burst into tears. Luckily, she held back the sensation and managed to keep her head.

"It's all right, mum. Everything'll be just fine. I'm going to go get Mrs. Hudson. Please don't drink anything more." Giving her mother a brief squeeze, Cypress hurried off to the downstairs flat to fetch the elderly landlady.

"Oh my...let's get you to bed, Molly dear. Everything will be better in the morning," Mrs. Hudson said when she arrived. Cypress helped her get Molly up and into the bedroom, trying not to dwell on the way her mother clung to her. Once Molly was settled on the bed, Mrs. Hudson went back into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, leaving Cypress to listen to her mum sniffle about various things. There was one thing, though, that caught her attention.

"I promised Sherlock I'd...happy and...and I tried so hard, but I still miss him and...I can't...every time...every damn time..." To Cypress, this explained everything and her heart broke for her mother. For a brief moment, she considered trying to bring her parents together, to end all of this suffering, but then she remembered her promise to her father and his words about why such a promise was necessary. This was something between them that she should not try to interfere with.

"I love you, mum," she said because no other viable response formulated in mind. Her emotions were much more complex than this simple statement, but she'd always been rubbish at talking about her feelings in more than simple phrases, if she even managed words at all.

Mrs. Hudson came in with tea and told Molly soothing things, mercifully leaving Cypress to her thoughts at the end of the bed. She watched the two women interact and envied Mrs. Hudson's social skills. The landlady always seemed to know exactly what to say to put people at ease. Cypress had a way of making everyone more tense. Maybe it was better if she didn't try to further comfort her mother. She didn't want to make things worse. Hanging her head, the teenager moved to leave, but her mother's voice stopped her.

"Cy? Please...please don't go..." There was desperation in her tone and Cypress was struck by the thought that her mum might now be afraid of everyone she loved walking away from her.

"I'm here, mum," Cypress responded meekly and was surprised to see a relieved smile in return. Even after Mrs. Hudson had gone and Molly had fallen asleep, Cypress remained at her mother's side, curling up under the duvet with her and hoping that things would get better soon.

Shortly before sleep took her as well, Cypress received a text which read, _Mr. Campbell will be dealt with. -MH_. Her uncle had always been protective of her and her mother, always looking out for them. It was nice to be reminded that someone was.

* * *

><p>Since Cypress had discovered his identity, Sherlock had stopped dying his hair, letting it darken and grow out. He wanted to look like himself when his friends saw him at last. He managed to scrounge up the money for a Belstaff coat and a blue silk scarf as well and when he saw his reflection when he donned these, he felt more himself than he had in a very long time.<p>

Hope made itself known in Sherlock's heart again. If he played his cards right, there could be a real future out there for him, one worth living. He dreamed of being among his friends once more, of seeing Molly smile at him and hearing her laugh, of being there for the daughter he had known for less than a year but whom he cared for deeply. He found that his nightmares lessened in intensity when he focused heavily on his goal of one day fulfilling these wants. He later greatly regretted giving himself so completely to these emotions, for the state of things was about to become much worse.

The holidays ended and school resumed. At first, Sherlock had been excited to see Cypress and Lilian again, but the moment he took in their appearances, that joy died to be replaced with worry. Both girls, but particularly his daughter, looked haggard and carried themselves in a way that was almost completely devoid of their usual liveliness. There were dark circles around Cypress' eyes and her irises were no longer quite the vibrant green they had once been. Perhaps most shocking of all was that her chestnut hair, which had originally flowed down past her shoulders, was now cut rather short, like a bob version of what his hair had looked like when he was in his early thirties.

Everything told Sherlock that something big had happened during the holidays and that it had spawned very strong, mixed emotions in the people he loved. There was a decent chance that it had something to do with Molly, more specifically, Molly and her boyfriend. His suspicions were confirmed when Cypress came to the lab after school to see him.

"She kicked Matt out and it's my fault," Cypress confessed when Sherlock asked her what was wrong. She had come in acting like everything was fine, but her body language had given everything away immediately.

"I don't understand. Isn't that what you wanted?" Sherlock responded with a scowl.

"It was, but...mum...she's hurting so much...if I...if I hadn't...sh-she..." Sherlock's hands on Cypress' shoulders caused her to fall silent and stare determinedly at her shoes.

"Cypress, look at me," he commanded and she hesitantly obeyed, meeting her verdant orbs with his currently muddy brown ones. "Your mother never does anything unless she believes that it's for the best. This isn't your fault. She made a choice of her own free will and she knows that even the right decision can be incredibly painful to live with." Molly was perhaps the toughest person he knew and he had little doubt that she would recover from this, but he still felt the urge to go to 221B and embrace Molly, damn the consequences. He had waited fifteen years and his patience was beginning to wear quite thin.

"Please come home soon," Cypress requested. Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice shook as she spoke. "Please." Sherlock was struck by the fact that she thought of 221B as his home, that he belonged there with her and Molly. These were extremely tempting ideas, but he knew that he could not just take them as they were.

"Baker Street has not been my home for fifteen years, Cypress. I don't even know if I'd be welcome there. Your mother has probably moved on and I can't just-"

"She still loves you, dad." Cypress cut him off. He stared down at her in surprise. "Please come home," she pressed insistently.

"It's not as if I don't want to. It's just...complicated. I need to get it right," he responded quietly, brushing away the tears that tried to escape down his daughter's cheeks with his thumbs.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sherlock had admittedly not expected this offer, but considering that his plans would improve exponentially in their chances of success if she helped him, he saw no reason to refuse her.

"Can you be at the Watsons' house Friday evening?"

* * *

><p>"This is quadratic, yeah?" Lilian asked, showing her homework sheet to Cypress from her place on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. The dark haired girl peered at the paper and then nodded.<p>

"Is Auntie Mary out doing a bit of shopping?" Cypress set aside her notebook and pen and stretched out across the sofa.

"Yeah, dad said this morning that mum'd be home a bit late. She'll come in any minute now." Sure enough, the sound of the front door opening reached their ears a moment later and Cypress looked up to see Mary.

"Lilian, help your mother with the shopping," John called from down the hall. Groaning, the blonde teen abandoned her maths homework on the coffee table and went to do as she was told.

"Oh! Cypress, I didn't know you'd be over today. I hope everything's alright at home," Mary said when she spotted her godchild.

"Yeah. Mum's getting better. She's working late tonight, though, so I thought it would be more fun to be here." That was true enough, although it certainly wasn't the whole of it. She was anxious to know what her father was up to that he wanted her to be here tonight. He hadn't really explained.

"How was school?" Mary called from the kitchen.

"It was fine. Lilian, tell her about what Billy Gibbons did today. I swear it's the funniest thing that's happened at that school in years." A minute later, hysterical laughter came from the kitchen and Cypress briefly smirked before writing down a few more words of the essay she had been working on.

"Everything alright?" The teenager glanced up from her assignment to find John smiling mildly down at her, though his stormy blue eyes seemed to be full of concern. She could see that there would be no brushing it off this time.

"Yeah, I've just been a bit stressed out lately is all," she admitted and John looked back at her sympathetically, perching himself on the arm of the sofa.

"That's perfectly natural, given the things that have been happening around you and the time of life you're at right now. If you need anything, you know we're here for you." Cypress gave a grateful nod in response. Like Mary, John had been there to support her since the day she was born. The Watsons were the type of family that actually meant it when they said they would love and support a child no matter what.

"Hey, Uncle John," Cypress prompted when the man was about to get up.

"Yeah?"

"My dad was a good man, right?" John seemed a little taken off guard by the question but he quickly recovered and answered.

"He was the best man I ever knew and you should be proud to be his daughter."

"Did you ever get mad at him?"

"Loads of times, yeah."

"What for?"

"Your dad had a hard time handling emotions properly."

"Like me?"

"Yes, but you're better at understanding other people's feelings and taking them into account than he was. I didn't like a lot of the decisions he made as a result of the way he saw the world."

"But you forgave him?"

"Yeah. At the end of the day, he was my best friend. I always forgave him eventually. Why the sudden interest?"

"I dunno. I was just curious."

"I see. Is that all you wanted to know?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. I'll leave you to your homework then." John gave Cypress a quick pat on the knee as he got up and she watched him wander off to the kitchen. She hoped that what he had said was some indication of how he would react to seeing Sherlock Holmes alive and well again. As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Cypress froze and her heartbeat rapidly picked up its pace as her mind reeled with possibilities for what was about to happen. Was it who she thought it was? If so, this was not exactly what she had expected. John came into view once more and Cypress watched as he opened the front door. He went completely still when he saw the person outside and the teenager's anxiety peaked.

"Hello, John." The unmistakable sound of Sherlock's rich baritone reached Cypress' ears, spurring her into getting to her feet. "Before you say anything, I want you to know that I'm deeply sorry for taking so long."

"Sherlock Holmes." John sounded as if he were walking a thin line between pure joy and murderous rage, which made Cypress suddenly realize why it was so important for her to be here. Her presence would make it far less likely that John would let himself fall to the homicidal side of his reaction. "I should have known. I should have bloody known."

"John-"

"Do you know who's in my sitting room right now, Sherlock? A fifteen year old who doesn't know what it's like to have a father because _someone_ decided to play dead again. I want you to come in here and explain to her where the hell you've been all her life, because she definitely deserves to be the first to know." John's voice was low and quiet as he spoke, making it barely audible to Cypress. It was a tone she knew to mean that he was unfathomably angry and she had only heard it once before. He stepped aside to allow his best friend into the house and Cypress gasped. Her father looked much like he had fifteen years ago. His eyes were their original ice colour as he looked at her now and she was dazzled.

"Hello," he greeted her awkwardly. Slowly, she sat back on the sofa, not looking away from him for a single second.

"Dad."

"What's going on in here?" Mary appeared and a second later, the empty glass she had been holding shattered in the wooden floor. "Took you long enough," was all she seemed to be able to say at seeing Sherlock. The sound of smashing glass drew Lilian from the kitchen and she opened her mouth to ask her mother what had happened when she spotted Sherlock and something rather more prosaic fell from her lips.

"What the fuck?"

**A/N: Yeah, I'm the kind of asshole who ends the chapter right when it's getting interesting. Sorry. I honestly have no idea when I'll be able to finish another chapter, but I do hope that it's sooner rather than later.**


	4. The Proper Way

Chapter 4: The Proper Way

"Six months after my exile, even Mycroft thought I was dead. I was in deep and I came very close to death repeatedly, but I lived. It took me quite some time, but I dug myself out of the hell I was in. It was finally safe enough about a year and a half ago for me to contact my brother and set my sights on London. I knew I couldn't just come back, so I applied to the recently vacated job of chemistry teacher at the school Cypress and Lilian attend. The one thing I could have was a chance to look out for them. I made a vow, after all," Sherlock divulged carefully. He watched the others with an almost anxious expression. Lilian looked like she was afraid that someone had drugged her, but her parents were practically unreadable. Cypress seemed simply unable to speak.

"No one knew?" John inquired.

"No one."

"Have you told Molly?"

"No, but I'm working on that."

"You'd better be." The unspoken threat in that statement was that if Sherlock didn't reveal himself to Molly soon, John would do it for him.

"I know that I have much to make up for. I only ask to be given the opportunity to do so." Sherlock found it hard to look at the others. He knew it was silly, but he feared meeting their gazes and seeing things that might indicate that he could not recover what he had lost.

"All right, but if you pull anything like the shit you pulled on me last time, I will make you regret it, understood?"

"John," Mary scolded sternly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered solemnly and John's face softened a little.

"Sherlock, did you know that your daughter is an extremely talented cellist?" Mary made an attempt to lighten the mood, which Sherlock was rather grateful for. Cypress turned slightly pink at the compliment and stared at her lap.

"I did." The corners of his lips perked upwards.

"She wants to play for the London Symphony." Oh, now there was something he hadn't already known. He watched as Cypress turned pinker and fidgeted with her fingers. He deduced from this nervous reaction that she hadn't told him about it already because she was afraid that he wouldn't approve.

"That's a worthy ambition," he commented and Cypress instantly lit up.

"Thank you," she responded brightly, her fingers rapidly tapping her thighs in happiness. Sherlock had noticed that she had little physical ticks like that that reflected her emotional state. He had had physical ticks when he was a child, but he had forced himself to stop doing most of them for the sake of avoiding the attention of others. He felt...glad, in a way, that Cypress had kept her ticks, in part because it reminded him that he was her lucky father and made him feel more connected to her. Over the years, he had learned the extreme value of such attachments. They were like torches in the dark to him.

"You can hug me," Sherlock told Cypress, opening his arms to her. The Watsons all raised their eyebrows in surprise at this and then grinned when Cypress nearly tackled him with her embrace. It felt different than the other hugs they had shared, which had been secretive and contained a layer of angst. This, on the other hand, was open and purely joyful.

"Can I get one too? You're my godfather," Lilian piped up hopefully, although she did still appear to be struggling with accepting the idea that her godfather had been grading her chemistry homework in disguise.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed with a small roll of the eyes before opening one arm to the blonde to accept her into his embrace. Mary looked like she was going to explode with happiness at this point, what with Sherlock still being alive and him with his arms comfortingly around two girls who were alive because of him. He saw her take a photo, but he didn't mind, knowing that she would not be imprudent with it. Mary knew all too well the precarious position he was in.

* * *

><p>The return of Cypress' dear father seemed to be going rather smoothly now that the Watsons knew that he was alive. As per usual, the smoothness didn't last very long. Other forces in her mother's life decided to come into play at exactly the wrong moment.<p>

Cypress had been sitting in her room, conspiring with her father via text, when Molly knocked on the door.

"Come in," the teen called and her mother came through the door looking a bit nervous, causing Cypress to scowl. "What's wrong, mum?"

"I just got a call."

"From whom?"

"Do you remember Yvonne?"

"Was she the one who decided that she could wear dreadlocks? Oh no, wait, that was Teagan. Tamsin? Tina?" Cypress struggled to remember the name of that particular item in the 'Mum's Exes' category. This one must have been when she was small, because the clearest thing she could recall was the look on her mother's face when a familiar blonde woman had shown up at the flat with unwashed hair full of plastic beads.

"I think you're thinking of Taylor, dear."

"Oh right. Who's Yvonne, then?"

"She's the one who took you to the British Museum on your seventh birthday. Do you remember that?" Molly looked hopefully at Cypress, who nodded. Now that she thought about it, she had liked Yvonne and had wondered what had happened to her when she stopped coming to the flat. Molly had never talked about it. "She's back in town and she just called and asked if I'd like to have dinner with her this Saturday. I told her I'd call her back and let her know." Molly sat down next to Cypress on the bed and the girl stared at her, confused and panicked. This really put a cramp in her plans to reunited her parents, but she knew it would be wrong to make her mum stay away from Yvonne.

"Why are you talking to me about it?" Cypress asked quietly.

"Because my love life affects you and after...after Matt..." her mother trailed off and Cypress jumped to reply before any tears could spring forth.

"Mum, I don't blame you for that. It's not really for me to say who you can or can't date, as much as I might feel otherwise," she said slowly, choosing her words with care.

"Well, I still want to know what you think," Molly insisted, placing a hand on Cypress' shoulder.

"I...I think it's a bad idea," the teen confessed reluctantly, staring into her lap. Thankfully, her mother didn't ask why she felt that way and just accepted it. Being so trusted was a lovely sensation.

"Okay," Molly told her before giving her a quick hug. "I ordered pizza. I'll call you down when it gets here."

"Okay." Cypress managed a small smile and her mum went back downstairs, allowing her to check her phone for a reply from her dad. He'd had sent her a simple 'see you soon' and she thought nothing of it.

* * *

><p>Molly decided after a few minutes of silent deliberation that she would turn down Yvonne's offer. She realized that it was dangerous to jump into something so soon after a (really) bad breakup and her daughter wasn't comfortable with it either, so it was better if things were left as they were for the time being. She occupied herself with setting out a couple of plates in anticipation of the pizza delivery and flipping through the channels on the telly for something both she and Cypress would enjoy. She resigned herself to browsing their movie collection when there was nothing to be found.<p>

The doorbell feebly rang just as Molly was considering whether or not she was in the mood for Pan's Labyrinth. She retrieved a couple of bills from her purse and made her way down the stairs to the front door. When she opened it, she expected to see a miserable college student in an uncomfortable red uniform, but who she actually saw was someone very different. She drew in a sharp breath and took a few steps back.

"You're not hallucinating. It really is me. I know that there are a lot of things I need to tell you, so please don't faint or turn me away." The soft tone of Sherlock Holmes' deep voice elicited a particular tingling in Molly's body which she had not felt in a very long time and she found herself short of breath. "In through your nose, out through your mouth," Sherlock reminded her. "Take your time." He stood there with an unusual patience as she struggled to recover from the shock of it all.

"Sherlock," she gasped and she felt anger spark inside of her amongst the storm of emotions she was experiencing. He must have seen it, because he very quickly tried to stop that spark from becoming a flame.

"I'm sorry that it took me so long to come back. I'm sorry that you had to raise our daughter by yourself. I'm sorry for everything I should have been here for. Please forgive me." It sounded like he had spent a lot of time thinking over those words and that was enough to stay Molly's anger, surprisingly.

"It's not so easy. I can't just flip a switch and-"

"I know. Expecting you to forgive me right now would be unrealistic." Molly was then struck by how much wiser this Sherlock was than one she had once known. "You have a lot to think about and I'm hindering the process. I should..." She could see that he was scared. "Here." He thrust the pizza he had been holding into her hands. "I paid for it." He took a step back, obviously intending to leave, but Molly grabbed his hand.

"I want to hear everything," she told him, pulling him up the stairs and not letting go even when they were settled on the sofa for fear that he would disappear. He made no effort to withdraw and in fact squeezed her hand in return as he told her his story, how pure chance had allowed him to escape the death everyone had expected for him, how had clawed his way out of hell to get back home, how he had returned a few months ago to find that she had a family, how he had become a chemistry teacher and discovered that he was Cypress' father. By the end, silent tears were falling down Molly's face and she hastily rubbed them away, knowing how Sherlock hated having to deal with crying people.

"Does she know who you are?" she sniffled.

"She figured it out after a while and she was extremely cross with me, but she cooled off when I explained things to her. She didn't tell you about me because I asked her not to. I needed time to formulate what to do."

"You've changed, Sherlock Holmes," was all Molly could think to say as she watched his thumb affectionately caress the back of her hand.

"I know." She found that the things that had changed about him made him even more attractive to her and that in turn made her want to jump on him and snog him until he understood exactly how much she had missed him, but she reigned herself in. This wasn't a fairytale and she could not just let him waltz back into her life so easily after fifteen years. They could not just pick up right where they had left off, especially not after everything that had happened recently. It would do more harm than good.

"Sherlock, I tried as hard as I could to keep my promise to you, but as I'm sure Cypress has told you, I haven't been very successful. I still love you just as much as I did the last time I saw you and I want to be with you; I want you to be Cypress' father, but I'm in a very confusing place right now and I need space." A sadness found its way into Sherlock's eyes the moment the but came along and Molly hastened to elaborate, unable to bear his 'kicked puppy' demeanor. "All I'm asking is that we take this slowly because I have a lot of things I need to process, like the fact that you're alive."

"I presume there are rules to this kind of thing," Sherlock responded, probably looking more hopeful than he ever had after uttering the word 'rules'. Molly gave him a small smile and nodded. "Cypress, you can stop lurking," he suddenly called out and their daughter appeared in the doorway.

"Hi, sorry, I-I just..."

"It's fine," Sherlock told her. She looked about as nervous and excited as a child looking out of the window on the top floor of a tall building. Molly couldn't blame her. This was the first time she had seen both of her parents in the same room.

"Mum, can dad stay for dinner? Or maybe forever?" Cypress asked in a small voice, her fingers tapping at her sides. Molly couldn't help but grin. She was reminded of when the girl was six and had asked if she could have a Siamese Fighting Fish.

"Dad can stay for dinner if he wants to, but we'll have to work up to the other thing," Molly answered to Cypress' elation and Sherlock's surprise. "Are you hungry, Sherlock?" The dark haired man gave a curt nod in response as if his thoughts were too consumed at the moment for anything else. "Cy, why don't you get three plates?" Cypress eagerly obeyed.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said softly, clearly having expected things to go much more roughly than they had. It saddened Molly to think that the years had worn away at this man so much that it didn't occur to him to give himself any credit for not cocking things up and learning from his first go around with coming back from the dead. God, what had happened to him? She tightened her grip on his hand comfortingly.

"We have a lot of things to work out between us and as a...as a family. I look forward to it." Molly's voice almost cracked as she spoke and Sherlock looked back at her with one of the most vulnerable expressions she had ever seen him wear, although this was the first of its kind to be happy instead of sad.

"Me too."

**A/N: Sorry that this chapter is so short. It would have ended in an awkward place if I had gone on. Also sorry to all the people who were expecting ugly fallout. I think Sherlock would have learned from his past mistakes, especially when he's a mellowed out middle aged man who hasn't seen his loved ones in fifteen traumatic years. Anyhoo, I hope that you liked this and I'll try to get another chapter to you all soon if I can. Thanks for all the support.**


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